Chapter 1

She's Lost Control

Red, green, blue, black, white. Red, green, blue, black, white...

"Isabella?" Dr. McCormack tries unsuccessfully to get me to talk. Again. In vain. Pointless.

I keep my gaze outside the window, reciting the order of the color of the parked cars.

Red, green, blue, black, white. Red, green, blue, black, white...

"Isabella, please look at me."

Ignore her. Ignore her. Ignore her.

Dr. Abigail McCormack is an old, bitter woman, probably around late forties, early fifties. Gold wedding band wrapped around her left ring finger. Penn State Diploma hanging smugly on the wall. Various pictures of her children are scattered along her mahogany desk, displaying her with a Yale graduate, who I'm guessing is her son. There's another one with her standing next to a young girl, probably around my age. On the desk are various knickknacks, probably gifted to her by her loving children. I look over to another picture, one of her and man, her husband.

They don't love each other. You can see it in their eyes. In fact, they despise each other. I can probably map out their whole relationship. They probably in love when they were younger, falling quickly and swiftly in love. Then he popped the question. She obviously said yes, thrilled with the idea of getting married and having a dream wedding. Hey, she's got a degree and a man. What else could a girl want? They probably had passionate sex every single day during their first year of marriage. The next year, every couple of days. The next, every couple of weeks, until they get sick of each other. Then she got pregnant with her son. He kept them occupied, their minds off how much they hate each other. Then, they had another kid, to balance it out when they got sick of their son. Raising kids keeps them at a distance, but they stay together for social events, like that graduation, acting as the perfect couple. Wealthy, intelligent, caring. Inside, they hate their lives and a part of them wishes that their kids will fall out of their cycle, though most of their conscience is happy that their kids will end up just like them.

It's the cycle that never ends, never ends, never ends...

"Isabella, are you listening?"

Dr. Abigail McCormack is a smarmy, unattractive woman. She might have been attractive in her glory days, but those are long gone. There's scattered grey hairs running through her long black hair tied into a bun at the nape of her wrinkled neck. Always a bun, never down. A gold chain with a heart hanging from her neck, probably gifted to her from her loving husband.

Dr. Abigail McCormack is a prodder. Constantly prodding me. She takes a stick, prod, prod, prod. I sometimes feel like I'm on stage for her scrutiny, spotlight right on me. Dr. McCormack's beady brown eyes watching my every move, hoping I'll put on a show for her. Hoping I'll obey her commands. Talk to me. Let your feelings out. Talk to me. Talk to me. Talk to me!

STOP!

No, I can't scream at her. I won't talk to anyone. I won't let anything out. I won't let them know. I won't let them in. I won't let them break me down. Silence is golden. There's not enough silence in this world.

Dr. Abigail McCormack just gets fed up with my silence and prescribes me an anti-depressant before sending me on my way. I've gone through three doctors int he past year I've been here. They just give up. Give up. Quitters.

Red, green, blue, black, white. Red, green, blue, black, white...

"Isabella, I've talked to your parents about changing your treatment and medication. They've given me their consent."

Ah, yes. Charlie and Renée. My loving birthgivers.

"If your treatment is successful, then we could send you home. Wouldn't you want that?" she says, clicking her pen, hoping she'll have something - anything - to write down on that little piece of paper. The one that she'll put in the folder that marks me as certifiable. The one that says I'm depressed and I cut myself for attention. They don't understand.

Home? What is a home? Where is a home? My home right now is Villette Psychiatric Hospital. "The Cuckoos Nest" as called by many. Where is my home?

Forks, Washington.

The City Of Forks Welcomes You - Pop. 3246

Somewhere in a small, two bedroom white house lives a Police Chief named Charlie Swan and a kindergarten teacher named Renee Swan. They were high school sweethearts, fell in love, got married, and had a beautiful baby girl they named Isabella Marie. She was the apple of both of their eyes, a happy baby and child. Nothing could go wrong in that perfect family. They're living the American Dream.

"So this is my fault?"

"Oh, this is all your fault!"

"I wish I never married you, fucking asshole!"

"The feeling is mutual! Maybe life would be a whole lot fucking easier without you two!"

"Isabella?"

They thought I couldn't hear them, but I could. I heard everything. I went into my closet, closed my door, shut my eyes, hands over my ears. Taking the blade. Dragging it across my wrist. I still heard them. Screaming, crying, crashing, breaking, sobbing, then the make-up, angry fucking that followed. I think they enjoy the fighting because of that. I'm the topic of most of their fights. I'm the cause of most of their problems. If I wasn't born, everything would be peachy keen.

They never come and see me anymore. I imagine since their problem is gone, they're living a great life. Daddy dearest is embarrassed of my because of my first suicide attempt, he's the parent of the town crazy. A Police Chief who couldn't keep face in Forks, Washington. They don't understand. I was doing them a favor, they shouldn't have called the ambulance. I was getting rid of their problem, but they ruined it. They ruined it.

"Isabella, don't you want to get out of here? To live a normal life?"

Normal?

Mundane. Dull. Monotonous. Boring. Bland. Blah.

What is normal?

Adjective.

Conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected.

No.

What would I do if I got out of here? Go back to living with Charlie and Renee? Was that normal? Are screaming matches standard in all houses? Charlie and Renee. When was the last time they visited?

For Christmas visits, on December 23.

What day is it today?

I glance at the small calendar with golden retriever puppies on it.

June 22.

School would be letting out for summer vacation.

School.

Angela was always nice to me. Preacher's daughter who liked photography and wore glasses. She used to date Ben Cheney. I wonder if they still date. They were always nice to me. They were the two golden nuggets in the pile of shit that is Forks Middle School.

Jessica and Lauren were typical mean girls. Always pretended to be friends with me, but talked behind my back. I bet they're having a field day with me. Freak, cutter, attention whore, psychopath, mental patient.

Mike Newton is a future sex offender with the way he persistently asked girl's out on dates, and even after they said no, he would badger and badger and badger.

I hated school. I hated the kids who went there. I've known them since pre-k, and I'm sick of them. I hate them. I loathe them. They never accepted me, because I was odd. I was different. They don't like different. No one likes different.

"Isabella?"

The black car pulled out of the spot in the parking lot. I continue to count the cars through the window.

Red, green, blue, white. Red, green, blue, white...

Dr. McCormack sighs, exasperated, obviously done with her attempts at getting me talking. "Steven, please escort Miss Swan back to her room."

"Yes, Doctor." The head orderly, Slimeball Steve, says while placing his hands on me. I cringe away from him. The girl in the room next to mine, Kimberly, nicknamed him Slimeball Steve. Apparently he has had "fun" with some of the other patients when the Doctors are nestled all snug in their beds, away from the Cuckoos Nest.

While the Doctors away, Slimeball Steve will play...

"I'll see you tomorrow, Isabella." Dr. McCormack says as Slimeball places a hand on my arm, pulling me out of the room and down the hall. I keep my eyes on the ground, watching the alternating tiles...

Blue, white, blue, white, blue, white, blue, white, blu-

"Here we are, Isabella." he rolls my name off my tongue, cloudy grey eyes watching me, looking me up and down. I pull my long-sleeved shirt down as I enter my room. Slimeball let's his hand linger on me before I walk over to my bed and take my seat, looking up. Slimeball licks his lips before winking and walking out of the room and closing the door. Fucking asshole. Sighing, I stare at the white wall, sitting on my blue blanket, and doing my normal "sanity checks," just in case the pills they give me make me forget.

My name is Isabella Swan. I'm fifteen years old. I'm a patient at Vilette Mental Hospital in Seattle, Washington. I'm not crazy, but everybody thinks I am. It has been 157 days since I've talked. It has been 36 days since I've cut. It has been 181 days since I've seen my parents. People think I'm crazy, but I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy.

I close my eyes, hearing the screams of one of the patients down the hallway. Curling myself tighter, I place my hands over my ears, trying to block out the screeching.

My name is Isabella Swan. I'm fifteen years old. I'm a patient at Vilette Mental Hospital...

This story was inspired by a couple of things. Cut by Patricia McCormack, which is a fantastic book. The movie "Veronika Decides to Die" and I was also watching "Girl, Interrupted" while reading this. I would definitely recommend both of those movies. I've never been to a psychiatric facility, so I'm going with what I've read off the internet, what I've seen in movies, and also putting my spin on things since Vilette is supposed to be a privately owned and funded psychiatric hospital. Bella was put into the hospital by her parents, who never divorced, after her suicide attempt. Jasper and the rest of the Cullens will be introduced in the next chapter. They are still vampires.

The title of this chapter is inspired by the song "She's Lost Control" by Joy Division